


The Magician's Drive

by eag



Series: The Magician's Map [2]
Category: The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Earth, F/M, Fillory (The Magicians), Friendship, Gen, Loria, Love, M/M, Magic, Road Trips, Second Chances, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 19:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16859644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eag/pseuds/eag
Summary: Over a year after The Magican's Map, Benedict and Bingle find themselves mysteriously drawn into Fillory.  Along with Quentin and Alice, they embark on an adventure through Loria.Post-Magician's Land





	1. Life After the Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> Incomplete.

Within a few weeks of living in Santa Barbara, it was very obvious to Benedict that Bingle couldn't live in a house in the city. The swordsman was restless and needed more space than Benedict's tiny house could provide. In all honesty he was afraid of Bingle getting in trouble, especially with the law; there were already a few incidents with the neighbors and he didn't want to press his luck. So Benedict acted quickly; he found an old ranch for sale tucked in the foothills behind Santa Barbara, bought it, and immediately had the city house professionally cleaned and its salvageable contents packed, ready to be sold. 

The long-foreclosed-upon property was spacious but modest, abutting the wild hills behind it, surrounded by gnarled oaks. It had been built decades ago, tiny and uninspired compared to the massive hillside mansions that had sprouted up nearby, incongruously tropical paradises in the scrubby California hills. The property sat on a few acres of undeveloped chaparral and was at the end of a long switchbacked road. The nearest neighbors were almost a half mile away down the hillside, distant by California standards.

One of the first owners had been a ballerina who had a spacious dance studio built adjoining the house, all golden polished wood and floor-length mirrors and a well-worn barre. The second he saw that, and found out that former owners two owners ago had been tech millionaires who had rigged it up with high-speed fiber optic cable, he realized it was perfect. He quickly made an offer, and bypassing all sorts of conventions with the leverage that money, equity, and a pristine credit score gave him, had them quickly moved in.

By his calculations, after burning through the majority of his savings, his budget would be in the red for a few months until the city house sold; there were many things to buy. Bingle needed his own bed, for one, instead of sleeping on the sofa like he had been. There were other household considerations, like furniture and towels and curtains and cookware, all sorts of silly trivial things that Benedict didn't really notice were important until Bingle came to live with him. And then there were things that Bingle needed. Valid identification and papers. A sword. More than one set of clothes.

Over the course of a few months, as Benedict slowly unpacked his meager belongings, he managed to get everything done. They went down to Los Angeles for three days to meet a swordsmith, from whom Benedict bought a custom fighting sword, a heavy blunted practice sword, and a pair of sharpened fencing foils. They spent several weekends in Piru so Bingle could take motorcycle lessons, after he expressed an interest in learning how to ride. After Bingle received his license, Benedict bought a second-hand silver Ducati Multistrada 1200 for him.

During this time, Benedict found he had less and less time for his program; he was constantly distracted with basic household duties. It took some time for everything to settle into a regular schedule, and slowly he found his way back to coding.

It was a few months after that before Benedict realized he almost never saw Bingle. They lived on wholly different schedules; Benedict was prone to waking up around mid-afternoon, and going to bed with the rising sun; in contrast, Bingle woke before dawn and slept in two shifts, the first starting at around an hour or two after sunset. They saw each other only briefly, sometimes only in passing. Bingle waking as Benedict headed to bed. Benedict working with his headphones on while Bingle woke up from his first shift of sleep, only to realize that hours later Bingle had long since gone back to bed.

Bingle never said anything that hinted at complaint, but sometimes Benedict wondered, did the swordsman look more wan and drawn? Was he looking a little thin? Was he more or less happy? It was hard to tell. But Bingle could always be reliably found when Benedict woke, working on his daily routine of training in the studio.

Often Benedict stuck his head in to watch as Bingle trained, doing amazing things with his sword and his body, things that Benedict could only dream about, things that were straight out of action movies. Sometimes afterward, while Bingle wiped the sweat from his face with a fresh towel, he would ask Benedict if he wanted to go for a ride: what about ice cream? After Bingle showered, they might tear through the hills down into town for an ice cream cone down by the pier. Once a week, Bingle would drive them down to town for an early dinner (or in Benedict's case, breakfast). Benedict would navigate, clinging to Bingle's waist and shouting directions as they roared down the roads, always pushing the speed limit but never getting caught. Benedict had introduced Bingle to sushi, to tacos, to tapas and teppanyaki; Bingle was always pleasantly amazed.

It was a great way to live, Benedict thought. He had pretty much everything he could want; a best friend, a great project, high-speed connectivity, and weekly mini-adventures. Somewhere along the way even his agoraphobia seemed to subside; between living out in the middle of nowhere with its big empty spaces and Bingle by his side, those feelings of anxiety seemed more like a bad memory from the past than any real problem.


	2. Bingle is Depressed, Which is a Surprise to No One Except Benedict

One winter afternoon it was raining when Benedict woke, a soft patter that dusted the dry, thirsty hills. He got up and stretched, then went to the adjoining bathroom to brush his teeth and take a long, satisfying piss. He opened the door of his room, expecting to hear the the sharp sounds of Bingle's breaths and the low thud of his feet as he went through his fighting forms. The house was silent, but for the rain.

He padded around in his pajamas, the hardwood floors cold underfoot, and peeked in the studio. It was empty, and the fencing foils were hung up on the wall by the door. One was showing signs of wear on the leather grip; the other one was pristine.

Curious, Benedict wandered through the house, and then noticed that the kitchen door was open. He stepped out onto the covered porch that wrapped most of the way around the house. Bingle hadn't noticed him; he was staring out toward the obscured ocean, at a bank of dark clouds that loomed over the sky like a massive mountain range.

“Hey.” Benedict sat down beside Bingle on the wrought-iron bench; Bingle shifted slightly, moving aside to give Benedict more space.

Bingle said nothing, but he put his arm around Benedict's waist. Benedict could feel his heart pound a little; he hadn't ever quite gotten used to how touchy-feely Bingle was. Must have been a Fillorian thing, he thought. Cultural differences and all.

“No training today?”

Bingle shrugged. “Not now.” He looked out at the clouds in the direction of the ocean, almost longingly.

“You okay? Are you not feeling well?” Benedict hesitantly put his arm around Bingle's shoulder, feeling awkward. They were about the same height sitting, though Benedict was taller in the legs. “I can heat you up some soup or something. Or make you some tea if you want that.”

“No. I'm well.” Bingle said. He straightened his back as if he was steeling himself. “Benedict, I wanted to know if you would like to train with me.”

“Huh?” Benedict blinked. “What, are you giving private lessons or something?”

“I thought perhaps if I...” Bingle shrugged again, waving it off with his free hand. “It doesn't matter. It was a foolish thing to think-”

“Hey, what's the matter?” Benedict looked over at Bingle cautiously; the swordsman looked more melancholy than usual. “Is it the weather? Seasonal Affective Disorder?”

“No. No true disorder of any kind.” It was obvious that Bingle misunderstood. Suddenly he straightened up, his dark eyes meeting Benedict's. He spoke in a low, intense voice. “In another life, we sparred with swords, and I trained you myself, in entirety. In the year that we knew each other, you became a gifted swordsman. But this is not that life, nor is it that world, and you are not exactly he.” Bingle nodded to himself, as if he had come to a conclusion. “And I should not expect it.”

“Right.” Benedict's mouth closed tight. He hated being compared to that other Benedict. Usually Bingle was more discreet and wouldn't bring it up like this, but right now...

“I still want to know if you would train with me. If you want to train with me.”

“Maybe later,” Benedict got up. “Sorry, I have to brush my teeth.” He slipped off into the house and retreated to his room, shutting the door. He felt a pang of guilt that he had lied to Bingle, but what could he do?

A few minutes later, a polite tapping at his door. Benedict opened it apprehensively.

“I am sorry,” Bingle looked exhausted. Benedict wondered why he hadn't noticed earlier. Guilt, worry, fear...all in a knotted nest of unpleasantness that settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Don't...don't be. It's not your fault.” Benedict stumbled over his words, shocked at how upset Bingle looked.

“I have been unfair to you,” Bingle sighed, and before he could continue, Benedict took him by the elbow and hauled him over to the living room, where there was a nice sofa and a television that no one ever watched. He didn't want to have this conversation with Bingle anywhere near his bedroom. They sat down together.

“Look, you've got it hard. Way harder than me. I don't have to deal with culture shock every day. I mean, you're still adjusting. You gotta give it some time...”

“Perhaps,” Bingle admitted.

“And you know, there's like PTSD, and maybe some other stuff like that you're struggling with...”

Bingle looked at him blankly.

“Just...don't be so hard on yourself, okay? I mean, you're gonna get used to this.”

“I'm afraid I may not be able to,” Bingle said, and he straightened up. “I have all my life been a wanderer, and to plant roots here...no matter how lovely it is and no matter how much I appreciate it, is extremely difficult. But I cannot leave you,” he admitted.

Benedict paled; he hadn't considered that Bingle would have thought to leave him. Somehow the idea of losing Bingle caused a sudden, unbearable lump of anxiety in his throat and set his heart pounding unpleasantly. “I...I wouldn't want you to go. Please...please don't.”

“I won't. You have my word,” Bingle said abruptly, and stood. He headed for the studio. Soon Benedict heard the sound of Bingle's feet thumping across the wooden floor.

Benedict flopped down on the couch. He tried to imagine living without Bingle, and he suddenly realized he couldn't. Part of him wanted to keep the swordsman at arm's length; the other part wanted to never let him go. He realized that ever since that kiss, back when they got back from their adventure up north, he had been unconsciously avoiding Bingle. Something about that whole situation had made him wary, almost afraid. He didn't know where that would lead, and he didn't want to know.

“I gotta try harder.” Benedict stared at the low-beamed ceiling. “I can't...”

Benedict decided he needed to do whatever it would take to keep Bingle from leaving him. It wouldn't be too bad to get some exercise, he thought, looking at his thin arms and legs. He glanced through the doorway; Bingle was lunged mid-thrust, and the wiry muscles of his arms stood out in strong relief. Perhaps it would do some good. Besides, it'd be more fun than hot yoga or going to the gym. And who knew, he might actually be good at it, with a teacher like Bingle.

Maybe after breakfast, Benedict thought. Maybe later.


	3. Benedict is a Putz

What was easier than changing his entire lifestyle was to try to adjust his time to Bingle's time. He figured it wouldn't work the other way around. It took a few days to work himself up to it; at dawn, when he usually went to bed, he made himself a pot of strong coffee and resigned himself to staying up another 20 hours or so to shift his internal clock back. He could just pretend it was a long coding run, and do it until he was shifted back to something like a normal schedule. Or at least something approximating a Bingle schedule.

No more late nights. Benedict sighed. Those were the best times to work, when he could escape from other people, and the world was quiet and still...but then again, it was pretty quiet up here anyway, away from the city. And he had escaped from people almost entirely a couple years ago. Perhaps he didn't really need late nights...

Bingle appeared in the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of water from the reverse osmosis system. It had taken some doing to convince Bingle not to drink from weird places, like the faucet in the bathtub or the backyard hose or tap water in general. Benedict had given him a lecture on lead and arsenic and agrochemicals leaching into the groundwater that he was pretty sure Bingle didn't exactly get, before putting the bulk of the blame on local custom, which Bingle finally accepted. 

“Hi.” Bingle was always either fully dressed or not at all. That was something Benedict noticed when after a modest earthquake in the middle of the night, Bingle had sprung out of his room, sword drawn, completely naked. That had been a pretty exciting evening.

He normally wore his sword everywhere he could, which these days was around the property. They had had the talk about how he wasn't allowed to wear his sword in public. Not that it kept Bingle from being unarmed; he was pretty sure the swordsman was keeping a steak knife in his boot, but he couldn't quite prove it; he had a lot of mismatched cutlery and couldn't be bothered to count what he had or didn't have.

“Hey. So uh, what are you doing today, Bingle?”

Bingle looked him over carefully for a moment. “Food first, then training. Then a ride down to the beach for a walk. Then a midday meal, and back to training before you wake up.”

“Do...you do that often?”

“Every day.”

“Even though it's been raining?”

“Even though it rains.” Bingle opened the fridge. One thing Benedict had found surprising about Bingle was Bingle's incredible love for fresh produce. All those stories about roasted meats and potatoes, fresh-baked breads and pies in fantasy books never prepared him for the actuality of having an actual fantasy novel character in his house; given a choice, Bingle would probably consume something near a pound of fresh produce a day. Perhaps he was tired of all those feasts of meat pies and roasted wild game. Bingle even liked salads and made them all the time, though he said they weren't quite up to the standard of what the centaurs could do.

As a result, Benedict ended up ordering large weekly consignments of seasonal fruits and vegetables from local farms. Benedict never cooked because he had no idea how to do it, and Bingle only knew rudimentary methods of cooking that he had picked up from years of wandering, but those rudimentary methods yielded some surprisingly good meals. Benedict never thought he'd like turnips or cabbage so much, much less fire-roasted oranges, which Bingle liked to cook out in the yard in a stone-lined pit he had dug into a patch of bare dirt one afternoon.

“Hungry?”

Benedict nodded, and Bingle took out some more things. Daikon, onions, pears, spinach, peas, orange-colored beets, jalapenos, thick slices of bacon...coarsely chopped, then tossed into a pot with a little water. Bingle leaned against the counter, nibbling around the pebbly core of a pear, watching the vegetables stew down. 

“I thought...maybe we could spend the day together. Do you mind?” Benedict stared at his feet; why was it so awkward talking to Bingle like this?

“Certainly not. I would like that.” Bingle smiled. After everything had cooked down, he cracked a half-dozen eggs and stirred them into the stew with a wooden spoon. Once the eggs were set, he finished it off by stirring in a bit of butter, and dished up two big bowlfuls of the stuff. He opened the crackling paper bag of a loaf of rye bread and tore off two large chunks, handing one to Benedict. They settled down at the kitchen table to eat, sprinkling the stew with coarse salt and fresh-ground pepper to taste. The way Bingle ate reminded Benedict of a book he read once; Bingle didn't seem to season anything until they were at the table, when he just sprinkled salt or lemon or pepper onto his food with every few bites. Knowing what he knew about medieval history, Benedict felt lucky that Bingle didn't spice everything with sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. In many ways, medieval food just sounded like a gross, demented recipe for pumpkin pie.

The food was spicy and surprisingly good. Maybe he was just getting used to it; maybe it was Bingle. He wasn't completely sure.

“When you were in Fillory, did you train twice a day too?” Benedict was curious; he never really knew much about what Bingle did during the day. He couldn't recall if he had ever bothered asking.

“No. Just once in the morning. Sometimes a little later in the day if I was feeling restless.”

“Then why did you change your schedule? Are you...restless?”

“That. And...” Bingle looked down at the remnants of his food, before sopping a piece of bread in it. “I was hoping perhaps you'd find an interest in joining me.”

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in, and when they did, Benedict felt a strange, almost overwhelming anger, realizing that for the better part of a year, Bingle was trying to manipulate him into doing something he wasn't really interested in. The swordsman was just as bad as his parents. “I'm not...I am not like that other guy! You can't expect me to...I can't believe this!”

“I'm sorry.”

“Just...just leave me alone, all right?”

“Of course.” Bingle finished his breakfast and cleaned up, before disappearing into the studio.

Benedict waited a long time, but he never heard the sound of Bingle starting his training. Instead of checking, he decided to go to bed. He was too tired for this crap.

*****

There were no real second chances. Bingle sat for a while on the floor before he lay down on the smooth, golden wood of the dance studio. Outside the high windows, rain streaked down. He should have known better. What awaited him here on the farther side of the world was an even deeper, crippling loneliness than he had ever felt, even in the deep jungle of the far side of the world.

In some ways this world was a paradise of plenty; he had never eaten so well nor felt so safe. The weather was almost a perpetual springtime, neither too cold nor hot. But he could not be himself, not anywhere. Not even alone in his own room, listening to the soft hooting of the owls in the night, and the howl of coyotes.

He looked at his fingers, relaxed in their natural curl and flexed his calloused hand into a fist, imagining gripping the hilt of the sword in the palm of his hand. Unfortunately Benedict was wrong. This could never be a world he would adjust to, no matter how hard he tried. His was a world of life and death at the tip of a sword, something that Benedict had said this world had put by generations upon generations ago.

Sooner or later, Bingle thought, the strain of the contradiction would kill him. Perhaps that wasn't so bad. He had already escaped death several times over. Inevitably it would catch up.

But secretly, he was disappointed in himself; he expected to die as he lived, by the sword. He wanted to die in battle, to a great young swordsman whose skill surpassed his own. Not by a slow melancholy that ate at the edges of his life until there was nothing left.


	4. Fillory by Way of Disco Ball

Benedict woke up from a fitful sleep. It was after sunset and he was exhausted and remorseful. He didn't know why he had been so mad at Bingle. It seemed petty and grossly unkind, completely unfair especially since Bingle had always been so good to him.

“I have to change.” It was a thought that kept running through his mind.

By the time he was showered and dressed, he realized that Bingle had long since gone to bed. He looked at the clock; it would be about an hour before Bingle woke up again. 

Impulsively, he thought, perhaps it would do good for them both to get out. Bingle was right; he was too restless. Benedict decided to take the initiative. He looked at the clock; by the time Bingle was up again, it'd be near midnight. 

They'd go to a bar or a club. It would be fun, the kind of fun adults were supposed to have, whatever that meant. Benedict knew about it in theory, but had never really done it before. Before, when he was still working for the big tech company, he was too young to go out to bars. Now he didn't even have to use a fake ID. With a little research, he found a place that would do, a nice place with a bar and live music.

He called a taxi service to make an appointment, and by the time Bingle woke up again, everything was ready. Benedict had dressed nicely and even combed his hair back, pomading his bangs out of his face.

He knocked at the frame of Bingle's door, and Bingle opened it. He was shirtless, sheathed sword in hand as if he was interrupted while belting it on.

“Come on, Bingle. Leave the sword and get dressed; we're going on an adventure.” Benedict smiled at him.

*****

Bingle drank brandy, more than Benedict could have imagined, especially since the swordsman seemed so dour and responsible. As for himself, maybe it was the two fingers of whiskey on the rocks he had, but whatever the case, Benedict was kind of drunk, drunk enough to let Bingle lead him to the dance floor. And maybe Bingle was drunk too, to even ask him to dance.

The bar turned out to be more of a restaurant with a nightlife than a proper bar or club, but as promised, they had a vast selection of drinks. There was music and a postage-stamp-sized dance floor, but it was unpopulated, an addition to draw customers but an addition that didn't do a very good job of drawing customers; most people were seated at tables or at the bar, dining and drinking at their leisure.

Though it was obvious that Bingle wanted to do a more lively jig, it was quickly and painfully apparent that Benedict didn't know any footwork to speak of, so the swordsman settled for something that was like a standing, slowly-moving hug that shifted from foot to foot.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Nervous, Benedict was worried about being seen like this; what if people got the wrong idea?

“Shh. Don't worry.” Bingle drew Benedict close, leaning his head against Benedict's shoulder. Bingle closed his eyes. Above, the disco ball spun in the dim blueness of the room, shedding its underwater light. Benedict wondered why he was here, and what he was doing. He looked up at the ceiling, and stared at the swirling points of light all around him and felt a little dizzy, a little out of sync with the world. Without warning, Bingle took his hand and gave him a twirl. The room spun, wobbling awkwardly, and he lost his footing, feeling himself fall.

Benedict gasped, and suddenly he was falling onto a soft, grassy tussock, dew-damp from the night air. Bingle stumbled against him, almost falling as well, but righting himself at the last second. The swordsman's calloused hand gripped his tight, almost enough to hurt, a reflexive, convulsive squeeze.

“Ow, let go...” 

“Sorry.” Bingle's grip eased and he helped Benedict up onto his feet. Bingle then looked around, immediately aware they were not where they were supposed to be.

“What is this place?” Benedict blinked. He couldn't be that drunk; they were really somewhere else. It smelled like fresh grass and trees, and was actually kind of cold. Somewhere nearby came the sound of frogs, and a great chorus of crickets chirping sweetly. He wasn't wearing enough to keep off the chill. Benedict shivered and wished for his leather jacket. He remembered where he had left it, in a booth at the restaurant, piled with Bingle's.

By the light of the three tiny moons, Bingle frowned, a little thinking frown. He then looked up at the sky, at the stars.

“The Brave Warrior...” Bingle said softly, reverently. But the constellation was inverted, extremely so, so that she nearly stood on her head.

“Huh?”

“We're...in Fillory...?”


	5. Fillory...Adjacent

Bingle made a fire, during which time Benedict finally was able to verify that yes, Bingle had been keeping a kitchen knife in his boot. Only it wasn't a steak knife like Benedict had thought, but small, heavy duty carving knife that he had made a makeshift sheath for, and had sharpened to a razor edge. They drank from a nearby spring and slept beside the crackling fire, back to back, to keep off the chill. Benedict was a little too worked up to sleep and unused to the hard ground, but he somehow he managed to doze off, and found himself waking with the cool light of dawn to the sound of early morning birdcalls.

Bingle was already awake and looking around, his fingers moving absently through some weird configurations. 

“What're you doing, Bingle? Um, with your hands.”

“Exercise.” Bingle looked over toward Benedict. “I've walked around a little this morning, but I still don't know where we are.” He started tangling his fingers together in a strange way that took up more of his concentration. “Wherever it is, I have not been here before.”

“So? Fillory's a big place.”

“I have been to the known world and beyond, all the way to the end of the world and the land beyond that. When I say I don't recognize it, I mean it is wholly new. It is Fillory yet at the same time, not quite Fillory.”

“Is that possible?”

Bingle shrugged. “After some of the things I have seen as of late, I suppose anything is possible.” After a few minutes, he untangled his fingers carefully. “All right. We must find a town or a farm. Somewhere where we may find provisions. We can't survive out here on our own.”

“What about hunting and stuff? Couldn't you get by on that?”

Bingle gave him a look. “I'm afraid you overestimate my abilities. Coursing down a rabbit in a partially enclosed yard for amusement is a different thing from hunting for survival. I'm not trained for the world of the wilderness. I am rather too civilized to survive out here on my own for long.” He said it ruefully, almost with a hint of amusement.

“Really? I thought all Fillorians-”

Bingle shook his head. “Perhaps if I had been born and raised in the forests or learned how to shoot, but the sword is meant to fight other swords, not deer or rabbits.” He picked up a long, flexible stick, thick enough to have some heft to it. It had been freshly cut and sharpened at one end, the other wrapped in strips of bark for a makeshift handle. 

“Did you do that?”

Bingle nodded. “This won't be the first time I've managed without an actual sword, and it's better than nothing. It may not win against an actual sword, but I'll give them more trouble than it would be worth.” He smiled faintly to himself, a spark in his dark eyes. “Just let them try.” He took the stick in hand, and stepped forward in a fierce lunging thrust against an imaginary opponent.

“Okay. Great. So you're armed, sort of, and we're lost in some place that's Fillory but isn't exactly Fillory. And we should find a town.” Benedict thought for a moment. “Do we find a river and follow that? Or...let's see, look for valleys? What if we went up a hill and looked around?” He tried to imagine how towns would form in places like Switzerland or romantic German countrysides. Didn't cities and towns always spring up around lakes and rivers and in valleys?

“Good idea. Perhaps if we find a higher place, we can use it as a vantage point to scout out where to go next.”

They broke camp and ate breakfast, gathering berries from bushes that grew like weeds, heavy with fat, tart berries that stained their fingers and mouths purple. Afterward, they headed toward a high crest of hills. Despite his longer legs, Benedict found himself struggling to keep up with Bingle, who walked surprisingly fast despite the deceptively easy appearance of his relaxed lope. Years of practice, Benedict guessed. Back when they were walking up highway 101 in Central California, Bingle had stayed close by Benedict's side, taking his pace, but now, in a place more familiar to Bingle, it seemed like it was all Benedict could do to keep up.

Panting, Benedict finally caught up to Bingle at the apex of the hill. The view was spectacular; where they had come from was a great green expanse of hilly plains, dotted with patches of wild, intense colors that took Benedict a few moments to realize were flowers. There was a forest in the distance and mountains on the other side, and on the far side of the hills, undulating valleys and a narrow coursing river. It was green beyond what Benedict was used to; it felt unusually fulfilling to his eyes after the dry hills of California, quenching a visual thirst he didn't even know he had.

“I don't see any signs of habitation.”

“Me neither.” Benedict took a moment to catch his breath. “What're we gonna do?”

“Let's follow the stream. Perhaps it will connect with a river or a lake, and from there we can find other people. Besides, we'll need the water to survive.”

“Good idea.” They started heading down the hillside, heading toward the stream, crushing ferns underfoot and pushing their way through thickets of young trees. Suddenly, without warning, Bingle dragged Benedict against the rough bark of a tall oak.

“Shh.” He pinned Benedict against the tree, so neatly that Benedict could barely move. Bingle's arm and leg felt like iron bands crushing him against the tree.

“What?” Benedict whispered, and Bingle shook his head, glaring him into silence. Bingle held his makeshift sword firmly, at an angle close to him so that it wouldn't be seen, but it was obvious he was ready to fight.

Footsteps and a voice. Then another one in response. It sounded like a man and a young woman.

Bingle listened attentively for a moment, and then let Benedict go. He stepped out from behind the trees and raised his left hand in greeting.

“Quentin.”


	6. Quentin and Alice

The once and former king of Fillory was supposed to be hunting for breakfast with his handmade bow (mostly handmade, though he had gotten bored partway through the shaping process and finished it off with magic), but instead had been drawn into a conversation about the shape and dimensions of the new land, and how it compared with Fillory itself. It was comfortable, friendly bickering, the kind that he always had with Alice in the past and had missed almost desperately.

“If it's a plane, Alice, theoretically it could extend it out in all directions infinitely-”

“But there is an end to Fillory; we both saw it.” 

“And what about the other edges?”

“I told you, it's not a flat plane like a square, it's a disk-”

“A disk can be a plane.”

“'You were talking about it like it's a big flat rectangle or square. Stop doing that-”

“Okay, whatever. But even a disk could be extended-”

“You're not even listening. Besides, you haven't seen what I've seen, Quentin. Stop thinking about it linearly and start thinking topologically. We shouldn't even bother with the plane idea anymore. I think it's been transformed and isn't a simple disk anymore, not after-”

And it went on like this, a messy but genial conversation of constant interruptions.

There was a faint rustling in a stand of trees up ahead, and Quentin stopped, raising his hand for silence. Alice stepped away as he drew an arrow, lifting his bow.

“Bingle?” Before he could stop himself, Quentin accidentally shot, and before he or Alice could stop the arrow with magic, something flashed; a stick? The arrow clattered away harmlessly.

“Good morning, Your-” Bingle shook his head, as if remembering something, and then he decided to go with it. “Good morning, Your Highness.”

“Sorry about the arrow. That was an accident.” Quentin looked Bingle over carefully. He hadn't expected to run into anyone here.

“It's all good.” Bingle shrugged and turned to glance behind him.

“Look, Alice, if Bingle's here, that means we're connected to the far side of Fillory. You remember I told you about him. The far side is the last place I saw-”

“We've had this talk a hundred times. I don't think it's connected to the far side. Just look at how he's dressed, Quentin. I swear, it's like you need new glasses or something. He's wearing skinny jeans and I'm pretty sure that shirt is Calvin Klein or Polo or something stupid like that. Whatever it is, just look at the material. It's a cotton-poly blend. He didn't come from the far side, not unless they opened a Macy's-”

Just then, Benedict stepped out. “Hey.” He waved sheepishly.

“Oh shit.” Quentin blinked, staring at Benedict. “Benedict...?” 

“So this is Benedict?” Alice looked at him curiously; something about the young man reminded her of Quentin. Not the Quentin at her side, older and white-haired and so self-assured, but the Quentin of her memories. Awkward and gangly, embarrassed to be alive. “The one who died.”

“Well, he's obviously not dead anymore. But he looked different before he-”

“Jeez, I'm not that guy!” Benedict threw up his hands. “Why does everyone think that I'm some dead dude? Seriously. Every! Single! Person!”

Quentin and Alice looked at each other, a quick and curious glance, and immediately launched back into their debate.

“Alice, we know this land is also bridging Earth and Fillory. If we're getting people from Earth, there must be some other way to get in-”

“That's ridiculous; no one should be getting in. If that was really the case we would have run into more people-”

“Maybe they haven't found it yet. Maybe there's another door, I don't know, behind a Target in northern New Mexico-”

“What, you mean like Roswell? That's actually closer to the southwest corner of the state-”

“Okay, okay, whatever. I don't have a precise working knowledge of the geography of the American Southwest-”

“Excuse me.” Bingle interrupted politely. “We didn't merely walk here. We were transported, but through unknown means.”

“Maybe they have a button?” Alice looked at them curiously.

“We don't have a magic button,” Benedict added, helpfully, remembering the books, but then he sort of took a half-step back, trying to stay out of the heated debate.

Finally, Bingle interjected, stepping neatly between Quentin and Alice with a sense of finality, ignoring their arguments and counterarguments: “Let's consider the business at hand; were you hunting for food?”

“Actually, yes.” Quentin looked a little surprised that Bingle had interrupted.

“Then let me offer a suggestion; perhaps Your Highness and I will seek the hunt, and Benedict and the young lady will stay to start a fire?”

“Bingle, you don't have to be so formal. I'm not a king anymore. Just call me Quentin. Or hell, Coldwater, if that's too casual for you.”

Alice rolled her eyes. “Q, just shut up and go with him, okay? We'll be fine.”

“But-”

“Leave. Now.” She made a brisk shooing motion with her hands. Quentin shrugged.

“As the lady says, so must we comply...” Bingle bowed his courtly bow that Benedict realized he hadn't seen in a long time. Immediately they headed off to continue the hunt.


	7. Who's Your Daddy?

“So, what's up with your dad? Is he like, overprotective or what?” Benedict finally worked up the courage to ask after they had found a large patch of bare ground and made a pile of dried leaves, twigs, and a couple dried sticks. He sneaked a glance at the curve of Alice's body, the voluptuousness of her heavy breasts.

“My...what?” Alice laughed; it was a wild, unfettered sound and it sent a thrill of excitement through Benedict. “No, no. No. That is so gross. Never say that to me again. Quentin's not my dad. He's my ex. My ex-boyfriend.”

“He's...kind of a lot older, isn't he?”

“Actually, he's a year younger. Well...maybe not anymore. He used to be a year younger.” Alice shrugged. “It's a long story, and I don't feel like going over it again. Just...he's not that much older. He ...had an accident that turned his hair white.”

“Some accident. I thought that sort of stuff only happened in like, comic books and cartoons.” Benedict looked around for two pieces of wood to rub together; wasn't that how people started fires? He wondered how much rubbing needed to be done to get it going. After all, he had never been a Boy Scout.

Alice laughed again. “You can say that again. Q's life is pretty comic and cartoony.” She pointed at the sticks he was trying to rub together. “Benedict, that's not going to work.”

“No?” Benedict put down the sticks. 

“No. Step back, and let me show you what does.” She smiled brightly, almost incandescently, and Benedict stood up and moved away from the tinder.

Alice made a little fancy sign with her fingers and muttered something. Immediately, a tiny blue-white flame appeared in the dead center of the tinder pile, and began to consume the fuel.

“Whoa. Whoa! Holy shit, are you...are you magic?” Benedict's eyes were wide with wonder.

“If you're asking if I'm a magician, yes. Classically trained, I might add.”

“You're amazing.” Benedict met her eyes; they were an iridescent blue, bluer than anything he had ever seen, bluer than the skies and the sea. He blushed and looked away. “I wish...I mean, that was really cool...” He fumbled with his words, embarrassed to be so awkward. In mild horror he realized it had been years since he had really talked to a girl. That and his closeness to Bingle...no wonder people were getting the wrong idea.

“Thanks,” she smiled. It was nice feeling like this, knowing that she had power over the young man as he could barely disguise his attraction and interest in her. She liked that he had nothing but admiration for her. It was way better than Quentin, who sometimes gave her sad puppydog looks that made her want to punch him just a little. “Why don't you put some logs on that, now that it's going?”

“Oh, uh, sure.” Benedict found himself scrambling at her orders, piling a few logs on the flame and getting a few splinters for his trouble.

 

“We didn't walk to this place from a Target. There is no Target in Santa Barbara.” 

Quentin looked over at Bingle curiously. “How the hell do you know what a Target is?”

“We went to one once.” Bingle said, his face serious as they stalked through the forest. “Benedict said we needed sunscreen. They had Icees. And popcorn.”

“I can't believe I'm hearing you say this. Did you-- no...you have been on Earth.”

Bingle agreed. “A year and more. It was by accident.”

“Wow. That's a hell of an accident. How did you like Earth?”

“The food was good.”

“Yeah, that's essentially how I feel about it too,” Quentin said wryly.

They walked silently for a while, alert for signs of game. A few times animals passed by, seen between a break in the trees, or under a bush, but often they were too large or too small to be bother. It reminded Quentin of playing an Oregon Trail knockoff on an online emulator in high school during lunch. No shooting a thousand pound bison only to take back 20 pounds. Not like they could eat that much anyway.

Quentin caught sight of something moving in the bushes, not too big, not too small, but Bingle had already stopped, silent, waiting for Quentin.

This time, Quentin was ready. He notched his arrow, drawing back.

A turkey waddled out, and Quentin whispered a spell under his breath before he shot it through its serious, reptilian eye, the spell enhancing his aim.

“Good work.” Bingle retrieved the carcass, pulling out the arrow and returning it to Quentin. He rolled up his sleeves and set to work, pulling out a knife from his boot, slitting the bird's throat and holding it upside-down by its legs to drain the blood.

“Thanks.” Quentin made a face; it was a good thing someone else got to do the dirty work for once. It almost made him miss being king. But here he was again, on another adventure, one of his own choosing, and with Bingle nonetheless. “Hey Bingle, where'd your sword go?”

“Which one?” Bingle gave the turkey a few shakes and began to strip it of its feathers, tearing them out methodically with strong hands. 

“Um...I think it was a magic sword, wasn't it?”

“Broken.” Bingle shrugged. It didn't seem like he wanted to talk about it, and Quentin obliged him. “These birds aren't normally found in Fillory.”

“Really? I guess not...I never did see one around.”

“We had meat from one of these creatures for a feast day some weeks ago. At a hotel restaurant.”

Quentin frowned; it reminded him too much of his parents and his own childhood, fidgeting at a white-draped table on Christmas day in the dining room of four-star hotel, eager to go home and play with his toys.

“Thanksgiving? Christmas?”

“The one with presents.” 

Quentin wondered what was different with this version of Benedict, the one from Earth, trying to imagine the kind of kid who would willingly choose to eat Christmas dinner at a hotel dining room. He watched as Bingle stripped the carcass bare, or as bare as he could manage, and then set about gutting it, reserving the heart and the liver.


	8. 2 Guys Sitting in Fillory Adjacent, 5+ Feet Apart Cuz They're Not Gay

“So what's up with you and your friend?” Alice smirked to herself; she just managed not to ask if Bingle was Benedict's father. It was pretty hard to resist being a total jerk, but she felt like he might run off and cry and never speak to her again if she was too harsh. She knew almost all about Benedict and Bingle from Quentin's little stories, but decided to play it dumb, figuring either one of them could tell her more than ever-clueless, self-absorbed Quentin could.

“Oh, he's my roommate. And I guess, we're best friends or something like that.” Benedict said carefully, as if slightly unsure of some of the details.

“Something like that?” She gave him an arch look, and he fumbled, blushing.

“No, no! No way! It's not like that. We're not like that. We're just friends. He's way older and anyway, I'm not into guys. I'm pretty sure he's not either.”

“No?”

“No. He's just really friendly.” Benedict was still blushing; even the tips of his ears were red. “Jeez, I'm totally normal.”

“Hmph.” She didn't like the way he said it, but it played well into what she wanted. “So what are you into?”

“Um...girls. Obviously. Computer programming. Heavy metal...uh. Computer games sometimes, but that takes time away from my project, so mostly not that.”

“Sounds exciting.” Sounds like Quentin, more like it, she thought, except with something more useful and less life-crippling than magic. Probably paid better too.

“I like books too,” he added helpfully.

“Let me guess; the Fillory books?” She sounded more sarcastic than she meant, but he was too eager and clueless to notice.

“Yeah! How'd you know? Actually, I liked them better when I was a kid, but you know, because the world's so simple it was easier to program Fillory than- Oh, the program.” Benedict made a face. “Shit...” He fumbled around in his pockets, pulling out a wallet and a set of keys. He looked at the keys, from which dangled a USB thumb drive. 

“I wonder...if this did it.”

“What's that?”

“Um, a two terabyte USB drive with the core engine of my mapping program? I think maybe this is what brought us over. The program kind of brought Bingle over from the far side of Fillory when I was running it on my desktop. And I think Eliot said something like he thought it could send people back and forth between the worlds. I backed up a copy to my drive when we moved, in case anything got messed up, and I guess I forgot about it.”

She looked at it and made a face. She considered asking more about the program, about Eliot, but it seemed too boring to even bother; he'd probably talk at her until she died of figurative boredom. So it was like the high-tech version of a button, but apparently it didn't work on command or touch, but by something else. “How did it activate then?”

“I don't know. I wasn't touching it or anything. I mean, not directly.” Benedict shoved his keys back into his pocket. “The case is pretty heavy duty. Keeps out dust and water and all sorts of stuff.”

“Clever.” Alice did not regret her decision to not ask; he was like Quentin, only instead of magic and Fillory, it was computers. So there could be other people just as lame, though Benedict was rather more on the sulky side than the pathetic. It was kind of endearing in a way.

“It's just the way it's made. They're expensive.” 

“Huh.” She made a non-committal sound, something that didn't invite further conversation, and they lapsed into an awkward silence.

“So uh...what are you into?” Benedict eventually ventured.

Alice shrugged, tired of talking, unwilling to bother with more social niceties, and Benedict ended up making up excuses to go find more wood.


	9. Loria

After breakfast, they decided to head to the mountains. It was one of the few parts of this new land that Alice and Quentin hadn't seen yet. A few days of traveling augmented by the Cozy Horse had given them a rough survey of most of the land, but after the Cosy Horse had left, they had been left to their own devices and the locomotion of their own two feet.

“Don't we need like, jackets and stuff? Crampons? Ropes? Oxygen?” Benedict wondered, staring at the mountains. They seemed immense and majestic, and vaguely reminded him of Big Bear, but with more trees and snow, and a lot less people.

“We'll be fine.” Quentin surveyed the mountain. “There are two trained magicians here with an arsenal of spells to keep us warm and safe. Don't worry.”

“What about bears? Wolves?”

“Two trained magicians. And a Bingle.” Quentin shook his head. Now he was starting to see what Eliot so long ago meant by having faith, and how much of a stick this version of Benedict was. He wondered how Bingle had put up with it, and for over a year. He glanced at the swordsman; Bingle looked like he had given up on smiling again. He remembered the last time he saw the two of them together, comrades-in-arms, smiling and laughing, swords in hand. But here, even after a year together it seemed as if the two were still strangers to each other.

Quentin wondered what kind of catalyst it took to get things going.

“Come on, it's an adventure,” Quentin clapped Benedict's shoulder. “You're allowed to go out without your retainer and your allergy meds and your inhaler, right?”

“I don't have allergies or asthma,” Benedict sulked. 

“It's just a joke.” Alice stood up abruptly from her seat next to the fire. “Let's just go. I'm tired of talking this thing to death.” 

Immediately they headed toward the mountains. As they hiked up through pristine alpine meadows full of flowers and then slowly past the tree line, the two magicians layered on spells, spells to ward off the cold, spells for endurance and strength, spells that hardened their skin and bones against falls and other dangers.

It took a couple days even with the super strength that allowed them to climb sheer cliffs by digging their fingers into the unyielding granite, and leap majestically over yards-wide crevasse in the glacier-topped mountains.

Once they made it over to the other side and descended back down into the treeline, Quentin gave warning before he started unraveling the spells. It was kind of a shame; Bingle in particular did some amazingly cool stuff while hopped up on magical strength. In one notable instance, he saved Alice from a fall into a hidden fracture in the ice by diving after her as ice crumbled around them, catching her and spinning them around mid-air until somehow changing their trajectory so he was able to leap back up. He had bounced up between the narrow sides of the glacial crevice, ice cracking under his feet, and deposited them both safe at Quentin's side. It had taken less than a minute, and looked impressive as hell, though Quentin decided not to mention that Alice would have been perfectly fine; after all, she could cast a spell to fly if she wanted to. And then he remembered the things Alice had said back in New York and that Alice might have decided not to, so it was probably all for the best that Bingle went after her.

“This place looks familiar.” Bingle looked around, at the trees and the sky and the meadow around them, full of fragrant grasses and tiny wildflowers, his pace slowing as the strength spell wore off.

“Yeah, it kind of looks like the other side of the mountain,” Benedict added, and Quentin decided that he wasn't particularly fond of this particular Benedict at all. The one that he had known was sort of an awkward younger version of himself; after a few days travel he realized that this Benedict was not so much like the other at all. Older, a little more set in his ways...Benedict from Earth was more like a spoiled brat who had a tendency to bully Bingle a little. And Bingle seemed resigned to it, as if it was just something he was used to.

Bingle said nothing, but bent down and picked a glossy red flower, grass crushing under his knee. “This...”

“Yeah?” Quentin came over, peering at the flower. He wasn't that interested, but it seemed best to model good, respectable behavior to Benedict, who Quentin was sure had been raised by wolves or their human equivalents. Lawyers maybe.

“This is a flower only found in Loria.” Bingle passed it to Quentin, who turned it over in his fingers thoughtfully.

“Loria? Are you sure?”

“It's the flower of the lands, of their great festivals. The blood iris. It only blooms in high summer.”

“I guess it does look like blood.”

“And the flower can be crushed and used to dye clothing. Here, look.” Bingle crushed a petal between his fingers, and his fingers came away red-stained. “I think we're in Loria.” It sent a little thrill of excitement through Quentin; if they were in Loria, that meant they were close to Fillory. Which meant they were close to all his friends. He wondered what Eliot would say when they showed up unannounced at Whitespire, and imagining it put an exuberant, almost goofy grin on his face.

“Isn't that where the bad guys were from? In the books.” Benedict interrupted, and internally, Quentin winced.

“Around here we prefer antagonists, but yes. That is where the “bad guys” came from in the books,” Alice rolled her eyes.

“Is this going to be a problem?” Benedict looked around nervously.

“Not really.” Bingle stood back up, dusting his jeans off. “We have more pressing issues, such as food and water.” They had mostly eaten handfuls of snow to keep hydrated but hadn't really eaten actual food since their turkey breakfast the other day; the layers of spells had kept them from feeling much hunger. All of them looked a little peaked, particularly Bingle who was looking almost gaunt. Quentin thought that seemed kind of strange; it suggested that Bingle had started off a little underweight, which seemed strange to Quentin, especially as Bingle had recently come from Earth where food was plentiful and McDonald's fries were waiting right around almost every other corner.

“Good idea.” Quentin straightened up. “We should start hunting again.”

“Or...” Bingle checked the position of the sun, and then looked around carefully. “I see smoke.” He pointed at a distant wisp of gray. “We'll head toward it and see if we can buy a meal.”

“With what?” Benedict gave Bingle a withering look, and Quentin winced. What had Bingle been putting up with on Earth?

“I know the Lorians,” Bingle said simply, and headed off without much warning, Alice at his side. Quentin caught Benedict's eye and shook his head faintly in disapproval before heading off after them.


	10. Dueling at the Tavern

They came upon a traveler's inn at the edge of the forest; it looked like a staging area for parties of flower pickers. There were a basket or two of the blood-red irises lined up outside the inn, their stems wrapped in wet cloth. Bingle led the way in, small and dark-skinned compared to the hulking forms of the fair Lorians, who Quentin could imagine as either Vikings or maybe Scotsmen.. The inn was surprisingly big and mostly empty at this hour, tables lining the walls but the center of the floor empty.

Bingle walked up to the bar and waited patiently for the barkeep to come over. There was a brightness to his eyes, a liveliness that Quentin hadn't seen since the days of the _Muntjac_. 

“What?” The barkeep was a massive man, all muscles and no fat, built like an ox, with blond hair that flowed down his shoulders in a rippling mane.

“I call challenge for my meal. And theirs.” Bingle gestured.

“Scrawny thing like you? Won't be much challenge,” the ox snorted.

“Even a mouse can bite,” Bingle retorted, and the barkeep looked down at him carefully, looking Bingle over from head to toe as if Bingle had reminded him of someone. Suddenly, Quentin found himself surrounded by men and women alike coming over to the bar, drawn by the conversation.

“I'll pay if he can beat me,” A skinny man put down a gold coin.

“Drinks.” A woman with two swords strapped to her back put down a small handful of silver. “For me, and his party. But I want my money's worth.”

Suddenly money was coming out of pockets and purses, tallied, exchanged for food, for drinks. Bingle downed a beer thirstily like a champ and then stepped into the wide empty space in the middle of the inn. By now the inn was surprisingly packed; it was as if a whole town had turned out for the occasion.

The challenger, the skinny man (who was still huge, though obviously scrawny by Lorian standards) stepped into the empty space as well, and people crowded around, sitting at the tables and on the floor, ready for the show. Quentin, Alice, and Benedict stayed huddled up against the bar, looking over a crowd of blond, brunette, and red-haired heads.

“Do you think he's going to win with that stick?” Alice wondered. “Maybe we should have tried to magic him up a sword.”

“I think he'll be fine.” Quentin smiled as he sipped his beer and settled back to watch.

Bingle drew his stick to cheers and howls of laughter. The other man drew his sword, a thick hulking thing, chipped and dented with obvious wear, but not terribly well-maintained. Bingle gave a little twitch of his makeshift sword, snapping up with his wrist like a signal and the other man came at him...

…and was immediately knocked to the ground, face-first. Their weapons hadn't even touched; whatever happened was too fast for Quentin to see, but he guessed that Bingle must have swept the man's feet out from under him somehow. Red-faced, he got up and paid up, handing Bingle half a gold coin before stumbling out of the bar to hoots of derision and laughter.

The woman stepped up after that, entering the ring and gestured for Bingle. She unsheathed her two blades, one in each hand, and Quentin could see Bingle visibly brighten.

“Put aside the stick. It's no good.” She had a low, melodious voice. She offered Bingle the hilt of her left-hand blade, and he took it carefully, almost reverently, briefly checking its balance before nodding in accordance. He stuck the stick back in his belt, and making sure it was secure, brought the blade up, giving it a little snap. He was ready.

They circled each other carefully for about a minute, and this time Bingle was first to attack, with a sharp movement of his wrist that brought the blade precariously close to the woman, snipping a few long auburn hairs in the process. But she whirled, her blade snapping out in a flashing blur and they were off, filling the crowded inn with the clashing sounds of metal striking metal.

They moved around the ring of onlookers carefully, staying out of striking range as their swords moved in a blur. Though the particulars were hard to follow, it seemed to Quentin as if Bingle was moving in little waves; he would let her take the offensive and then, after a turn, he would change gears and beat her back. It was a show, and not a bad one at all. Suddenly, the swords slid along the lengths of each other with a clashing sound of metal, and the two fighters had their points at each other's throat.

There was a quiet, tense moment and Quentin winced, wondering what was going to happen. Weren't the Lorians always known in the books for their evil ways? What if something happened to Bingle? He couldn't fathom the idea of Bingle getting killed trying to get them lunch and straightened up, wondering if he could fire off a spell that could end the stalemate. But then without warning, both fighters lowered their blades with a smooth motion and drew back a step with a bow. Applause erupted from the audience, and coins were being tossed to Bingle, landing in a clattering rain about his feet. The woman helped Bingle pick up all the coins and handed them to him, as he handed her back his sword. 

She laughed and tossed her hair back, leaning forward to whisper in his ear. Then she unstrapped the sheath of her left-hand sword and handed it to him. Carefully, he wiped the blade on the leg of his jeans and sheathed it, buckling it to his belt, and handed her his stick-sword.

And then she leaned down and kissed him, and he kissed her back, deeply, intensely, a long intimate moment caught in the midst of a cheering crowd. They smiled at each other briefly, and she disappeared into the crowd.

Bingle came back, still catching his breath and wiping at the sweat beading his forehead. 

“Wow, Bingle! That was amazing. I didn't know you could do that.” Benedict looked genuinely shocked as Bingle waved it off modestly.

“You don't know the half of it,” Quentin added. “There was this one time in Whitespire-”

But then a barmaid came by with a big tray of food for them and with the distraction of food Quentin forgot what he meant to say. They ate standing at the bar, thick slices of rare beef folded into pockets of coarse grainy bread, washed down with heavy mugs of foamy beer.

Bingle didn't even bother counting the money, handing most of it over to Quentin for safekeeping, though he kept the half piece of gold, and his left hand stroked over the hilt of his new sword thoughtfully. 

“What does this buy?” Quentin wondered and Bingle shrugged. 

“Whatever you want.” 

“I'll try not to spend it all on blackjack and hookers.” And then Alice punched Quentin in the arm and he laughed.


	11. Bingle vs. Vile Father

A few hours later, Benedict was basically done. Too many people, too much noise, probably too much beer...the smells... This whole fantasy world tavern experience was pretty fun at first, but there was a part of him that just desperately wanted a shower and a return to the non-threatening, controllable world inside his computer. But there wasn't even electricity here, and probably the highest tech gadget that existed in this world was currently in his pocket, basically useless.

After Bingle had finished fighting and they ate their lunch, people started playing music, gambling, eating, drinking...basically being loud and obnoxious. He flinched away and slopped beer on his shoes as a woman squeezed his elbow; he didn't like being touched much, much less by strangers that he didn't know or like.

“Hey Quentin, maybe we should-” he shouted to Quentin, who didn't hear him, engrossed in a conversation about local politics with a muscular Viking-looking guy. Actually, the whole bar was essentially full of Viking-looking guys and girls, many sporting a pair of fat, homely braids like some kind of Brunhilda.

Just as he was about to give up and wade his way over to Quentin to drag him out, the door slammed open and conversations in the big tavern began to fall into a hush .

“What is this, a Western?” Alice snorted and Benedict startled, surprised that she was so close to him. She must have been right behind him but she was so small, so petite that he hadn't noticed. He looked down at her, her breasts shifted under her t-shirt as she turned to look at the commotion at the door so he had to look away.

“Beats me,” Benedict shrugged, and then winced when he realized that he had basically shouted that, completely on accident as the bar had deadened into silence around them just as he spoke.

“Don't mind if I do.” A voice growled, and Benedict looked over just in time to see a massive figure wading its way through the bar. Well, massive in the around sense, more so than in the up-and-down sense; the guy was shorter than Benedict by a few inches and looked like a chubby Asian guy, the kind that he imagined should be hanging out in an arcade somewhere, plunking down quarters for some iteration of Marvel vs. Capcom. Not half-naked in a bar, spear in one hand and manboobs a-jiggle, shoving giant Lorians out of the way.

And then Benedict had an 'oh shit' moment when he realized the guy was heading straight for him. But before he could get his brain going fast enough think about moving out of the way, Bingle was there, as if appearing out of thin air, stepping between Benedict and the fat guy.

“Your fight is not with the boy.” Bingle's voice was low and steady, and there was a dangerous edge to it that sent a little thrill of fear through Benedict.

“No?”

“It's with me.”

 

This time it wasn't a matter of fun and games, though Benedict had no idea what the deciding factor was. The combatants didn't move out into the middle ground of the tavern; this time they went outside, along with almost everyone in the tavern, to a big flat piece of well-tread ground just beyond the building.

The day was cool, cool enough so that Benedict could see people's breaths as they exhaled, rising in clouds of steam about their faces. Benedict kept shooting Bingle nervous glances as if to ask if everything was going to be all right. But Bingle just nodded at him and smiled, just a tiny bit, his dark melancholy eyes filled with a bright spark of excitement.

Quentin and Alice, on the other hand, were watching with amusement. It seemed as if Quentin had full faith in Bingle and Alice...well, Benedict suspected that her motive was probably something more along the lines of 'no fucks given'. So there was that. Maybe he should strive to have more faith or to give less fucks or some combination of the two, but it seemed so...senseless to get in bar fights like this. What if someone got hurt? What if they had to skip town? Would they be arrested? Put in jail? Was this going to be a problem?

Somewhere along the way Benedict lost track of what was going on and was shocked out of his thoughts by the clashing sound of metal-on-metal. The fight had started and he hadn't even noticed.

He strained to see over the tall Lorians; eventually he wiggled his way around a bunch of people to an outer edge of the ring, just in time to see Bingle nearly run through by the spear, twisting out of the way with a half-flip as it jabbed at him, only to immediately turn his momentum around into an attack, both hands on the hilt as he brought it up to fend off the spear.

That fat guy moved fast, faster than Benedict could imagine a fat guy like that moving. Probably about as fast as Bingle, which was pretty shocking. All around him money was exchanging hands, shouting. 

“Vile Father! Vile Father! Thirteen on Vile Father!”

“Eleven on the little one!”

“Shut up,” he muttered to himself, and gasped as Bingle dodged again, spinning around the chubby guy like it was no big deal, cool and composed, his sword flashing. They went into a whir of movement, so fast that Benedict couldn't keep track of it, and then Bingle skidded to a halt in the flattened, half-dead grass. It was like his mind took a photograph of that very instant, and for a long time later when he thought about the fight, this was what his mind's eye saw: Bingle, with the sword cocked back so his hands were almost next to his ear, his right elbow up, one leg straight behind him and the other bent sharply. He exhaled slowly and the cloud of his breath quickly dissipated as he moved through it and then he sped up, his sword twirling up the length of the spear until the momentum snapped the weapon out of the man's hands, people jumping out of the way as it flung off into the crowd.

The blade whipped up next to the chubby guy's throat, touching it lightly without drawing blood. The silence was stunning; Benedict could suddenly hear birdsong and the sound of a burbling stream.

The fat guy looked shocked, and then suddenly laughed, an oddly high-pitched giggle, pushing the blade aside with a big meaty hand as if it was no big deal. He looked Bingle up and down. “Who the hell are you?”

“Bingle.” Bingle said simply, wiping the blade and sheathing it. But then he added, “Once they called me the Brown Mouse.”

Suddenly there was a huge roar of acclaim and people started chanting. “Brown Mouse! Brown Mouse! Brown Mouse!” Men and women alike rushed forward toward Bingle.

“Oh my god, racist much?” Quentin's voice was almost in his ear, and Benedict looked up to see him shaking his head.

“Right?” Alice scrunched up her face, and Benedict found the look on her face to to be so terribly cute. How didn't he notice it before? Or maybe he did notice, and he had just realized that since they began their trek over the mountains, he really only had eyes for her. It wasn't that hard though; she was smart and pretty and funny and a girl...

The cheering grew louder as the biggest, tallest Lorian picked up Bingle and put him on his shoulder. A great roar of acclaim went up from the crowd, and they took Bingle back inside for more drinks.


	12. Parties and Terrible Life Choices

Once word got out that the Brown Mouse had friends, their experience went from singing for their supper (or more like, Bingle swinging his blade for their supper) to carte blanche. Never mind Vile Father or whoever the fat guy was; Bingle was almost a bigger celebrity. Bottles of imported wines came out; sizzling roast pheasants were brought out on platters. Bingle sat at a table surrounded by food, drink, and admirers, looking slightly uncomfortable. Quentin and Alice were busy getting drunk on the good wine, and Benedict just endeavored to stay out of the way.

Eventually Benedict noticed that everywhere he turned they were telling Brown Mouse stories, stories of how Bingle killed three men in the same fight with a single blow. Stories of how he won his fights without even drawing his blade, just by the sheer strength of his footwork and his speed. Stories of a time when he wandered Loria, learning from the best.

And then there were darker stories. A man claimed to have known someone whose brother was Bingle's master, and then catching the tail end of the jumbled, drunken story, it seemed that it wasn't like a martial arts master or something like that, but a slave owner.

That was something he didn't know about Bingle. In fact, he wondered if anyone knew that about Bingle, other than some random Lorians. But maybe it wasn't true; after all, the Lorians in the books were more like a low grade of evil, the cartoony mustache-twirling villain type, nothing that scary or serious.

Just a drunken bar story, Benedict thought. Not likely to be true. And then he yawned.

This whole day had been exhausting. The last glass of wine he had on top of the beers had hit him like a punch in the gut, and he was starting to lose it. Someone came over and offered to show him upstairs to their rooms; that was Alice. He yawned and let her guide him through the crowd, to a clean quiet room with two narrow beds.

And then, he couldn't quite put it together later as to the circumstances or the sequence of events, but suddenly they were getting naked and then they were in bed and he was going to ask about maybe something like condoms but then they were fucking, really fucking, her heavy breasts soft under his hands as he gasped, dick clutched in the tight, hot wetness of her.

I'm drunk, he thought. Drunk and she's drunk and is this okay, well, not really okay but fucking fantastic and-

He came with a undulating groan, and he thought maybe she did too and then he passed out.

 

Some hours later, he woke in darkness alone in the bed, to the sound of the door opening.

“I had fun,” A woman's voice, low and velvety.

“I did as well,” Bingle's voice was gentle, with a warmth that Benedict hadn't known he was capable of. There was the soft, wet sound of a lingering kiss.

“Another round?” The woman's voice was amused, and then Bingle chuckled. 

“No more tonight. I'm worn out. Maybe another time.”

“Ah, then let it be a promise.” And she kissed him and this time Benedict had opened his eyes just a crack to see them silhouetted in the doorway, Bingle with one arm around her waist and his other hand dug into her long, loose hair. Hadn't it been braided before?

“Thank you for the sword. It saved me from a tougher battle than I would have anticipated.” 

“Thank you for yours. I'll cherish it, always.” And they kissed again and parted and Benedict slunk under the covers and pretended to be asleep.


	13. The Hangover

In the morning, once everyone was awake and assembled at the corner of the bar, nursing their respective hangovers, Quentin announced that they were going to head south, toward Fillory. 

“Q, you are so boring and predictable,” Alice rolled her eyes. “Can't we just enjoy Loria for a while?”

“That's probably a good idea. I mean, I don't know if I can even go to Fillory,” Benedict mumbled from the safety of his own arms. He felt like death marginally warmed over, and wondered how no one else seemed to be suffering nearly so much.

“What?”

Bingle ruffled Benedict's hair, and Benedict groaned, swatting half-heartedly at Bingle's intrusive hand. 

“A little over a year ago, Eliot came to Earth seeking Death. The personification of Death, that is. At that time, Eliot that Benedict could not be in Fillory, as--”

Benedict interrupted. “It's like dividing by zero. At least that's what Eliot said.” 

“Oh, so undefined. I mean, 'does not exist'.”

“Jesus, Quentin. Indeterminate. Did you forget all your calculus?”

“Um. It's been a few years. A few years more for me than you. And hey, I am not exactly in the best state to be doing calc.”

“That's not even calculus, that's like, a definition.”

“Whatever,” Quentin teased. “Plus C.”

“You can go plus C your face,” Alice stuck her tongue out at Quentin.

“I think I will,”

**Author's Note:**

> Incomplete.


End file.
